Paper, Quill and Tears
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: In Lothlorien Frodo helps his cousins deal with the loss of Gandalf, but only Sam knows just the way to help Frodo grieve over the wizard.


**Paper, Quill and Tears**

Sam is a marvel. Who would have thought that he had somehow found a way to pack my personal stationery into his already bulging pack?

There I was, sitting in the pavilion set by the elves, listening to the faint singing in the air. Legolas said it was a lament for Gandalf, and when I listened to it, I could capture his name repeated lovingly, longingly, within the string of ancient words I hardly recognized, and my heart bled anew, wept afresh, and I had to struggle against the sudden assault of grief and recollections that found no release in my eyes that I strove to keep free from doubt and yet full of comfort --a veil that I put on to shield my cousins and friends from the fear, uncertainties and longing that raged in my heart.

The night before I had held Pippin in my arms as he sobbed himself to sleep. There seemed to be nothing I could do to assuage his grief and guilt; he blamed himself harshly for bringing Gandalf's death by creating the racket that alerted the goblins to our presence. When Pippin had finally slept by my side, Merry crawled over to the deep, spacious cushion where I lay and started to chatter about this and that: elves, the Lady, Nimrodel, the food. Then suddenly he stopped.

"I miss him, Frodo," he whispered. "I don't know him as well as you do, but I miss him."

"I miss him too, Merry," I said, rubbing his back soothingly, trying to keep my voice even. "We all do."

"I'm scared," he croaked. "If it hurt this much to lose Gandalf, how will I feel if I should lose you? Or Pippin? Or Sam?"

I was stunned and could not speak for long moments. How could I tell him that even if any of us perish before this quest is ended, the others must somehow find a way to go on and finish it? How could I say that now Gandalf was gone, I no longer believe that I can accomplish what I set out to do? How could I let him now that after seeing Gandalf's demise I had been thinking hard to find ways to spare the others the same terrible fate, even if it meant going to Mordor alone? How?

And for that matter, how could I comfort him with the time-honored promises "We will always be together" and "I'll never leave you," knowing the decision that had hovered unformed in my mind, ready to take on a resolute shape the moment I could summon enough courage to do it? How could I lie to Merry, even if that lie was what he needed in his sorrow?

So I just held him close and said that yes it would hurt so much worse, the way it hurt me when my parents passed away, and no it would never heal, you would never forget, but in time things became easier and you learned to be happy again, and, and yes he could sleep on my bed too. And he lay down beside me and slept while I sat with my back against the smooth tree bole behind me, one hand absently twirling Merry's curls and the other resting on Pippin's head.

I looked across the room to see how Sam was doing. We all had been too frightened, too worried to think of our grief on the way to Lothlorien, but now that we knew we were safe, even for a while, the full impact of the loss hit us hard. I never thought I would see Boromir weep, but he did, silently and alone, and we respectfully kept the distance and looked away until he composed himself enough to return to us and continue the awkward charade that nothing had happened. I even saw Gimli tear a few strands of his beard when he thought nobody was looking and his tears gleamed in the pale moon like gems. And now in the dim light of the slim elven candles I saw silver streaks in Sam's face. He was sitting on his cushion, feet tucked up and circled by his hands, pale face staring blankly atop his knees.

"Come here, Sam," I said with a nod. He slid off his bed and hesitantly approached mine.

I let go of Merry's hair and reached for Sam's hand. "That was a fine poem you made about Gandalf's firework," I said with a smile. Sam blushed and muttered something incoherent.

"But it wasn't enough, was it, Sam?" I went on softly.

He shook his head and tears sparkled in his eyes. "It ain't so much that I'm scared of what'll happen when Mr. Gandalf is no longer with us, if you understand me, sir. There's Strider still, and Legolas and Gimli. Even Mr. Boromir will still go with us until he has to turn home, won't he? It's …" He swallowed convulsively, but even that did not help to contain his sob.

I pressed his hand gently. "I know, Sam. He's not just a wizard to me either. He's more like a very dear friend. Even without his fireworks and magic, I think I would've loved him and missed him bitterly all the same."

Sam nodded miserably and sniffled.

"Come here and lay beside Merry," I said. "Pull the blanket over the both of you."

Sam's face registered a brief uncertainty, but with another encouraging nod from me, he slid under Merry's blanket and lay down with a weary sigh. Merry muttered something and snuggled closer to me and I took my hand from Pippin's hair and gripped Merry's hand, without letting go of Sam's.

"Good night, Sam," I said, squeezing Sam's hand. "Sleep well."

"Aren't you going to sleep too, sir?" mumbled Sam, there was a touch of shyness and relief in his voice.

"In a while. You go on and sleep now."

"Good night, sir," he muttered sleepily.

I did not sleep that night.

Then this morning after breakfast, while my cousins, Legolas and Gimli were listening to some elves who came with harps and flutes to our pavilion, and Aragorn had taken Boromir to speak with the Lady and the Lord of the Wood, Sam approached me shyly and thrust a cloth-wrapped box onto my lap.

"What is this, Sam?" I said, putting down my pipe and lifting one edge of the cloth curiously.

"It's your writing things, sir," said Sam with a note of triumph in his voice. "I reckon you might need it."

I turned to look at him with a frown. "My writing things?" I set to unwrapping the bundle and found a wooden box inside. A key was tucked within the folds of the cloth and soon I lifted the lid of the box, and stared in awe at the content. A thin stack of paper with the distinctive Baggins crest on top, a bottle of ink put securely within a square slot, some new quills, wax and … I looked up at Sam's beaming face. I picked the seal-round and solid, carved with the familiar FB-and shook my head in wonder. "Why?"

"I thought you might need it, sir," said Sam simply. "Like them nail-clippers none of us thought of taking."

"But…but," I waved my hand over the whole thing. "A pair of nail-clippers are small, and light, and we're bound to need them sooner or later… But this?"

Sam sat beside me and slid a sheet of paper from the green ribbon that held the stack together, putting it carefully on the wooden table where we had our breakfast earlier. "I know you, Mr. Frodo. When Mr. Bilbo up and left you alone, you said nary a thing, but you took to writing hour after hour in that study of yours. Every year before your birthday, you go on this writing spree, and not just writing invitations, I reckon, because there were never that many folk you cared to invite to your party. Whenever you came home from a party looking like someone had put vinegar in your wine, you said everything was fine and locked yourself in the study and I'd find an empty ink pot on your desk come morning." He took out the ink bottle, unscrewed the cap and placed it within my reach.

I watched Sam with wide-eyed astonishment. Had I been so predictable?

"And last time, when you sold Bag End to Mistress Lobelia, you did it again, sir. You went around like naught had happened, but every night you stayed awake for hours, writing."

He reverently put a quill beside the crisp sheet of paper and smiled at me. "You're never one to say much, Mr. Frodo, and I think what you don't tell people, you write. You talked little, sir, since we left Crickhollow, and wrote none. I think you've got plenty of things to write by now. You didn't cry last night, I noticed."

With another smile he nodded and left me alone with a smooth sheet of paper before me, the familiar smell of the ink I usually write with, and the quill swaying gently in the morning breeze.

What a marvel Sam is!

fin


End file.
